


Clarity

by crzy_wrtr10



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Spoilers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crzy_wrtr10/pseuds/crzy_wrtr10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into Clint's headspace post-Loki. </p>
<p>(Spoilers for the movie)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am apparently incapable of writing anything halfway happy, and Clint's angst just speaks to me.

He was afraid to close his eyes because he wasn’t sure what he was going to see. And he couldn’t tell what he was more afraid of, that or the feeling of not being in control when it desperately mattered the most. 

Clint, to a certain extent, was a control freak. It was what allowed him to spend hours on the range with his recurve and a quiver full of broadheads and shred the middle of a target because he could. When he looked down the sight and picked a target, drawing the bowstring back to his anchor point, it was because he wanted to. Because he chose to. 

Loki had stripped away his control like the damn scepter had stripped away part of who Clint was at his core and replaced it with something else. It made him angry, yes, but mostly, and he would deny it for a long time, it scared him shitless. It had been a long road to become the man he was, and it had only taken a matter of seconds to replace it with someone Clint didn’t even want to risk looking at the in the mirror. Even worse was that he couldn’t tell if it was someone completely different or a part of him he kept locked very, very tightly inside.

Rock bottom was his role in Coulson’s death, because he couldn’t ignore that. 

Clint had been responsible for the hit on the helicarrier, and Phil had paid the ultimate price. He wasn’t a stranger to death, especially the ones at his hand. But to lose his handler, the first person to give him that all important second chance and who saw in him something Clint himself couldn’t see…it hurt worse than losing his brother, and he’d been so much younger when Barney had died. 

Which was why, at three in the morning following the battle for New York, Clint was sitting outside of what little glass was left in Stark Tower and looking at the city lights. The breeze ruffled his hair, and he dragged the cuffs of his borrowed long-sleeve tee down over his knuckles, rubbing at his denim-covered thighs. The clothes, loans from Tony, didn’t fit too badly, though he was the smallest man of their hodgepodge group. He still wore his uniform boots, the pant legs big enough to come down over them, but the rest of it – his clothes and bow – were inside next to the borrowed sleeping bag. 

The sleeping bag he hadn’t been able to zip closed because it felt too much like the restraints he’d woken up in. 

Restraint. Another loss of control, and another nightmare courtesy of Loki. 

Clint tipped his head back and looked at the cloudless sky, wishing he could see the stars. 

“Clint?”

He turned his head, easily spotting Natasha in the shadows. Him returning his attention to the view was all the permission she needed, and she padded softly over to sit next to him, a throw blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She ignored his silent request for personal space, nestling herself against his arm and arranging the blanket so it covered both of them. 

He rested his head against her shoulder with a sigh, breathing in a scent that was uniquely Natasha Romanov. It grounded him, reminding him of all the times they had gone on missions together, cramped in accommodations cockroaches wouldn’t dare inhabit, and it reminded him a little more of who he was. He hated the feeling that if he didn’t, he might forget altogether. 

“Do you think he would have forgiven me?” he whispered.

Natasha brought her hand up, cradling the back of his head as best she could. “I think he already did.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Bruce joined them as the sky started to lighten with the approaching dawn, settling on Clint’s other side, close enough to let Barton know he was there, but far enough away to not crowd the archer. Clint smiled wryly; if anybody knew it was like to feel crowded, it would be Bruce. 

Steve stumbled out shortly afterward, followed by Tony, who was already clutching a cup of coffee, and they acted like bookends. Clint hadn’t bothered to move his head from Natasha’s shoulder, and for the first time since being compromised, felt like, eventually, things would find a new normal. It wouldn’t be easy, and it probably wouldn’t be pain free, but he wouldn’t be alone. 

And that he could handle.


End file.
